COMPETITION

Paradise lost

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2050 you were invited to write a poem in the style of Byron, Wordsworth or Browning reflecting their reactions, were they alive today, on visiting the isles of Greece, the Lake Dis- trict or Florence.

Straight to the runners-up, who were Ray Kelley, 0. Banfield, Roger Till, Giles Ewing, David Heaton and Ralph Roches- ter, whose aghast Wordsworth reported:

And there were men who wore no shirts, Women who showed their thighs, And sticky, infant malaperts Who clamoured to the skies.

The prizewinning entries are printed below in reverse order of the given poets: Browning, Wordsworth, Byron. Each wins £25. The bottle of The Macallan The Malt Scotch whisky goes to Noel Petty.

Packs!

They dangle like clappers from tourist backs And sweep all the glasses from pavement tables And scatter the postcards out of the racks, These lurid excrescences covered in labels. An inter-rail horde of whites and blacks And yellows, in trainers and sweats and slacks: Assiduous Germans, baedekered, avid, Will stop to ask, 'Bitte, wohin fur David?' And cool Californians, open and easy,

Might call out, 'Hey, man, which way the U- feezy? —

And all of them hung with those hundredweight sacks That deal out such murderous sideswipes and thwacks.

If you happen to linger too near Primavera It's sure some appendage, unknown to its wearer, Will floor you with one of these random attacks!

(Noel Petty) Near where coaches slough their cargoes and pale children rush to play In the precincts of the Pitti — parks so peaceful yesterday — There's our villa, Casa Guidi, standing bravely still today. Some perhaps have read my verses, see my name and give a nod.

Most men saunter by the Arno, blind to where the Masters trod — Michelangelo and Dante; makes you doubt that there's a God!

Oh, you mediaeval spirits, were you also shocked when we Paced your tessellated pavements, certain we were first to see Muted glories in your frescoes, splendour in your statuary?

Did you find our foreign comments ill-informed, perhaps naif, As we stroked your weathered marbles, criticised your bas-relief?

Were we nobler than that tour guide whose crude jokeS are past belief?

Well, the Duomo still stands lofty and on Ponte Vecchio men Sell their fretted gold and silver just as eagerly as when I sought tokens for my loved one. Here's no Muse, though, for my pen. (Alanna Blake) They soar above well-trodden ways, The hills I used to love; Below, the horn unheeded brays And push resorts to shove.

No moss bedecks the rolling stone, The trampled violets die,

And where I walked, inspired, alone, A hundred pass me by.

At first unknown — though long ago My fame brought men to see — But now, ah, how unkind the blow!

The crowds are not for me.

That simple pilgrimage became A Prelude to perversion, Since now the haunts that brought me fame Are but a day Excursion. (Annie Brooks) I wandered still, on lagging feet, The Lakes before my eyes were spread, When all at once I saw a Seat Perched on a crag above my head.

'It is the Friends,' they said, 'who seek To place a Seat on every Peak.'

I set my teeth, and took my stick, And tried to climb that beckoning crag; The path ran round till I felt sick And fell beside my haverbag: And now my head in sorrow bends To think the Lakes have found such Friends.

(Paul Griffin) This islet of the Cyclades is where My Juan and his Haidee had their idyll.

The rocks, the waves, the beaches are still there, The sun is still as scorching as a griddle, But much has changed since their great love affair: To recognise the place is now a riddle. For me alas! it poses the conundrum, How can a charmed isle have become so humdrum?

For Juan, everything was quite Romantic — A lonely shore, a rendezvous for two. Not for my hero these invaders' frantic Pursuit of every vagary that's new, And desperate, noisy search for sport more antic.

Though I'm no moralist, I take the view That young love's passion is a private matter, Not best conducted in a rowdy clatter.

(Geoffrey Riley)